


Rise

by TempleVevHelm



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Cannibalism, Dismemberment, Disturbing Themes, Snuff, Violence, ask for tags, blood eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24891229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempleVevHelm/pseuds/TempleVevHelm
Summary: Megatron feeds in the arena...
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Rise

**Author's Note:**

> if you dont like the idea of a guy eating the literal soul and body of his now-dead opponent uhhhhh dont read??? dont know what to tell you buddy

The sound was deafening. Mecha swarmed the stadium. They pushed against one another, vying to see the floor down below. The stands were clouded with the noise of hundreds of thousands of voices – it swelled up, a tangible field, bloodthirsty and hungry. _Starving_. 

Megatron allowed the white noise to crash over him. The sensor crown under his helm rumbled, overstimulated – but the sensation only served to sharpen his senses instead of dull them. Those mechs out there, they were there to see _him_. Their champion. Perhaps another being in Megatron’s place would have called themselves the hero of those mechs out there, but Megatron knew better. Megatron knew the nature – the selfish, greedy intent of all those mechs, clawing to get the smallest taste of what he was offering. 

Freedom. 

More than that – revenge. The chance to stand up, push against, and rise up from the bodies of their oppressors. To show that they were worth more than their mangled, busted frames – more than their functions and more than the elite had ever considered them to be. 

In the dark, Megaton's optics brightened. The shouting reached a crescendo, and he ascended from the darkness. Symbolic. A sound wave of cheering erupted around him; Megatron stood still a moment, and the crowd hushed suddenly, awaiting his call. Megatron’s eyes scoured the top rows. Mechs once hid in those shadows, unwilling or unable to be seen so close to the epicenter of the movement – to his Decepticons – due to cowardice. Those seats were now filled to the brim with his followers, and one special visitor. Among the sea of red, one set of crystalline blue shone out – nervous, but anticipatory. Megatron fought a fierce grin, then raised one fist into the air. 

“Rise”, that fist called, and so they did. The mechs in the stadium surged up from their hunched positions, frenzied and begging and howling. Megatron inhaled deeply. The scent of dried, putrid energon stung at his vents. He held tight to that feeling for one, two, three, then let go sharply. His arm swung down in a controlled arc, and he strode further into the arena. His opponent walked in from the opposite side, and the cheers turned sinister. No mech had ever won against Megatron. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that Megatron had never lost. 

Megatron’s opponent locked optics with him. The mech’s gaze was resigned, but intense. He knew his part. He gave a nod, and Megatron gave one in turn; the movement went unnoticed by the crowd. The mech stood opposite of Megatron. Same height, same build. Megatron grey like death, the other mech as red like the rust that flaked out of the gutters of the city. 

Without the need for speech, they began. 

There was no circling like sharkticons, no slow crawl into the skirmish, they simply collided – and the sparks flew. Megatron’s knuckles, modded and jagged, gouged ragged trenches down the mech’s arm as he drew his own fist back. The swirls fell to the ground and the mech flinched back. Megatron pushed forward, crowding the other mech. The mech attempted a grapple, but Megatron quickly shoved both arms up between the other mech’s arms. Panicked, the mech attempted to guard again, but Megatron executed his counter faster. With the mech’s chestplates open and unguarded, Megatron’s talons dug shallowly into the edges of the armor, and he _pulled_. 

The mech gasped and his hands jumped up to grab onto Megatron’s wrist, but Megatron surged forward, forcing both of them to topple to the ground. Megatron’s other hand came up and slammed down on the mech’s head, pinning him in place. Snarling, he bared his fangs, then buried them deep into the mech’s neck cables. The tendrils snapped and split under the pressure. The mech gurgled, surprised, as Megatron pulled back – with half of his neck still in Megatron’s mouth. 

The crowd _screamed_. The hunger pushed the din into the background operations of Megatron’s processor. He licked, bringing the wires into his mouth, and chewing. His other hand had pried most of one half of the mech’s chest plates open. Weakly, the mech still attempted to grab Megatron’s wrist. He ignored the act. He needed to get the chestplates open before the mech guttered. His prize would only be sweet while the mech beneath him still functioned. 

With both hands, now, Megatron’s claws sunk deep into the armor. The mech spasmed as the claws dug into the weak protomesh of his spark chamber. The chestplates were wrenched off with little more care. The mech’s struggles were weak, as low as he was on energon from the wound on his throat. 

Bright light spilled out of the mech’s chest. The sight was almost as sacrilegious as what Megatron planned to do with it. He stared fervidly into the mech’s spark. The imprint of it burned into his optics, and he carefully committed the sight to memory before the hunger took over. 

With a low, warm growl, Megatron bent down. His mouth fit perfectly over the core that housed the mech’s spark. His teeth dug in, like pitons digging into a crag, and his helm lifted. The spark chamber warped and twisted as the core was pulled out. Lines of innermost energon stretching taught and then snapping – spilling the most precious of the lifeblood down onto the frame below, onto the arena, and onto Megatron’s glossa. His optics blew wide as the energy flowed into him. Power unlike anything else filled his tanks, and he hurried to cup his hands under the spray as he gnashed his way through the core. The spark fluttered, terrified and pierced by the cold, and Megatron’s pushed it into his maw. He swallowed down the innermost energon, the tiny cables that housed it, the twisted core, and the spark. It both burned and chilled going down. His fuel capacity shot up as the spark was instantly diffused into his frame. Megatron shivered. The innermost energon spilled from his lips. He could feel a shock of electricity spreading to all his overworked systems – healing them and soothing them. It was ecstasy. 

Megatron came back to himself. The crowd still called for him, and he had a whole meal left to consume. Alight with a new surge for hunger – for warm metal – Megatron ravenously tore at the frame. It continued to grey as he grabbed fistfuls of the spark chamber, twisted them into smaller heaps and rended them with his teeth. Cables gave way from the frame. Megatron tore out the fuel tank and guzzled the polluted energon that had sat in the frame’s tank. He crushed up the tank and shredded it. His metal composition grew one hundred and twenty percent before he felt full. 

Megatron’s frame rippled at the addition of the new materials. He felt the protoform under his shoulder guards bulking up, and the shallow gouges under his torsal plating pop back out before the plating itself thickened. He clenched his fists so hard that his hydraulics grinded against each other. It was complete. 

Megatron rose, a mountain rousing from a long slumber. His frame was burning hot to the touch. Steam poured out heavily from his vents. The taste of blood, metal and energon clung cloyingly to his lips and tongue and teeth. 

Megatron looked up, into the stadium above. The mechs that stood there stared, transfixed. Megatron’s optics flickered once more to the top of the stadium. Blue optics still watched. Nervous. Scared. _Excited_. 

All at once, Megatron brought both fists up and _roared_. Across the colosseum, mechs boomed back – delirious and starving and ready for their own meals. Looking at them all, Megatron knew, deep in his spark, that he would bring those mechs to the feast that awaited them in Iacon. Into the senatorial spires that would serve as their dining hall. 

Megatron would lead them to victory. 

_Rise, Decepticons_.

**Author's Note:**

> if its not clear i dont condone actual murder or cannibalism, just wrote this for the catharsis [peace signs]


End file.
